


Resonating Light

by ellorgast



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Canon - Manga, Dark Kingdom, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mid-Canon, Silver Millennium flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellorgast/pseuds/ellorgast
Summary: Kunzite was instructed to kidnap Mamoru for the Dark Kingdom. Instead he chose to save him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very, very old fanfic (started way back in 2004) that I never finished, and thought I never would. But a lot of people have been rediscovering it lately and now it has even inspired a delightful prequel called [Foreshocks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9496040/chapters/21486431) by [smokingbomber](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smokingbomber). So I am giving this fanfic another look, and posting it here for any who might want to read it.

Memories engraved in the past...

the sad past...

BAM he was down. Almost dead. Almost, but not quite. It was a strike meant for her, but he stopped it. Usagi was screaming his name. His true name. The name that he had not heard in centuries, but which stirred in his soul some deep, ancient feeling; some part of himself that had always been within him, and only now had been found. Just the sound of that name brought back the smell of a distant land-a land of lush trees and running water, of magic and holy things and mythical creatures. His name. His real name...

"Endymion..."

But all was darkness.

***

But for another, all was light. Bright, white light that flashed like perpetual lighting, that lit the world brighter than daylight. It was a light that could not be seen only with the eyes, but which was felt, tasted, smelled... overflowing the senses in a brilliant cacophony of perceptions. It was hot, cold, sweet, bitter, roaring and whispering all at once. It was stronger than any sun, grander than any heavenly body that could be found in the celestial plane. It was the light of the Ginzuishou.

For a few deadly moments, he was so overwhelmed that he was certain that he was dying. He stared at his hands, some part of him expecting them to disintegrate before him. But the hands remained in his view--a little calloused, perhaps, but perfectly intact, nonetheless. And then he was no longer concerned about his hands, because there before him, back from the dead, were three walking corpses. Except they were not corpses-they were alive, real, breathing. They were staring, their eyes wide, appearing as confused as he felt. But something in all of them was remembering. Some tiny, minute part of them that had never been destroyed.

"We were reborn on the surface to find our master... Where is our master?"

"Endymion..."

The memories came like a tidal wave. Everything they once were, everything they lost. The memories were as blinding as that holy light and yet, like the light, brought sudden clarity.

His Prince. His brothers--they died. They died. They died again. 

The bodies were melting, the corpses becoming corpses once again. Walking, dying corpses. And then there was nothing left save three precious, ordinary stones. He gripped the rocks in his hand, feeling the smooth, cool surfaces. He whispered their names one by one. Nephrite, Jadeite, Zoisite...

The light was fading. It was falling, like a teardrop, into the man who lay, like a fourth corpse, in the darkness. The light was inside him now, hidden beneath layers of black fabric.

The stillness that followed was like a void, so silent that he felt as though he had gone deaf.

"Kunzite! Take the princess and the Ginzuishou for the Dark Kingdom!" The voice tore through the silence like the screeching of metal being twisted and torn upon itself.

He hesitated, staring at the man with the ebony hair and the angelic white being who hovered over his prone form. The Prince and the Princess...

"Kunzite! Now!"

He raised a hand, and two women in colorful costumes leaped in front of his beam, shielding the white creature from attack. _But I notice you made no attempt to save him,_ he thought with a sneer, as the unconscious man was snatched from the arms of the goddess and into his own. He shifted the man's weight close to him, feeling his warmth through the thick fabric of his tuxedo. Blood had soaked through his jacket, staining the grey uniform that he was now pressed against. His face appeared deceptively restful, too deep in his state of unconsciousness to feel the pain that arched through his body.

"Bring him to me now!" his Queen's voice cracked like a whip overhead. A whip that he had never hesitated to obey before.

He watched that face, the normally dark skin turned pale, the striking blue eyes like reflections of Earth hidden behind thickly lashed lids. Bring him back to the Dark Kingdom. Bring him back, and... condemn him. Prince... my Prince...

"Kunzite!"

"Endymion... hang on."

He pulled the man close against his chest, ignoring the screams of the abandoned Princess. Light surrounded them both, fading into darkness and shadows. They dissipated into the shadows, and were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness. Stillness. The dead hours between midnight and morning. After that violent, earth-shattering light, the pale city lights seemed dull and sickly. They were the only thing that lit that small room. The unnatural orange of it filtered in through the dusty window, falling on a pale face.

He was sleeping now. The bleeding had stopped a few hours ago, but he still looked the color of dried grass, pale and fragile. Beneath the blankets, he wore only the black pants from his shredded and soiled tuxedo. His torso was a canvas of red and white-blood-soaked bandages that bound his wounds. Sweat slicked his face, glistening in the wan light and soaking through his black bangs.

Kunzite sat nearby, pale silver eyes on the sleeping Prince. He had not moved from that spot for quite a while, stirring only to check on him, to adjust a bandage or smooth the blankets. He was a gargoyle in the shadows, a silent guard cast in stony shades of gray. Streams of white hair fell in his face, glistening in the dim light even as it cast his eyes into shadow. The blood still stained his gray uniform, but he cared very little about that.

Finding accommodations for the injured man had proven difficult, and Kunzite had ended up using more than a few of his less honorable powers to do so. An ordinary hotel or apartment would not have been safe, and for that matter, he had little money at his disposal. Nephrite was the one who had maintained an ordinary bank account for emergencies, though why they would ever wish to buy something when they could simply conjure up whatever they needed had been beyond all of them. Now he was thankful for the funds he kept, meager as they were. He would need every resource at his disposal.

In the end, he managed to find an abandoned building hidden among the crowded residential units of Minato ward. It was livable, if not comfortable, and would allow them to remain hidden from the casual eye. Perhaps it was not fit for royalty, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could hope to do for his Prince. Upon arriving, he had immediately encased the place in every sort of shield and protection that he could produce. It would not protect them if Beryl herself appeared at their door, but it would prevent anyone from tracking them here, and hold off all but the strongest attacks.

So now here they were, and there was nothing left to do but wait. Wait for morning. Wait for the man he called his master to wake up--if indeed he ever did.

In a way, the solitude was a blessing. He needed the time to himself, to think, to remember... his memories were still patchy. Some moments in his past came to him with such perfect clarity that remembering them was like living them all over again. The haunting jingle of golden chimes on a breezy autumn afternoon. The thick, sweet scent of some delicate white flower long extinct. Crushed grass beneath heavy boots. Footsteps echoing in endlessly high archways. The soft warmth of a hand brushing his face. Colorful light filtering through stained glass. The sound of steel hitting bone.

Other memories were not so clear. They came in passing; vague apparitions that brought barely a tingle of emotion, some distant remembrance, and then were gone again. When he tried to assemble his past in order, he found the task difficult. Great chunks seemed to be missing out of his personal history, the timeline flickering in and out of darkness like a dying flashlight. Scenes of his life that seemed to fit in one point of time later proved to be completely out of place.

He closed his eyes, willing away the confused and jumbled images that somehow made up his life. It did not matter, anyway. He had remembered the most important things--who he was, and who the man sleeping before him was. That was all he really needed to know. As long as he had that to hold onto, nothing else was important.

The black-haired prince groaned softly, shifting in his sleep. Kunzite laid a cool hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

How long had he been in the Dark Kingdom? Years? Centuries? Had he always been there, sealed away along with that loathsome sun demon, or was he, like his prince, reborn into this world? Could he have been an ordinary human being once, with parents, siblings, a job, school, and all those other mundane things that define most humans' lives? Those painfully ordinary things that he had, for so long, been watching as an outsider, as an alien to this planet? Or was he a mere fabrication of Metallia, no more than an especially powerful youma? Neither thought was pleasant. On one hand, he had lost something precious. On the other, he never had it in the first place. His stomach twisted when he considered it.

Regardless of how he had come to exist in this life, it was the past life that concerned him now. His memories faded back, back into the icy darkness of the Dark Kingdom. And beyond the darkness, deep beyond the centuries, was a light, and that light was golden. It was that light that he held onto now, regardless of how many millennia of darkness separated it from him. It was all he had.

The night was cold, that last morning chill before dawn permeating the small, dusty room. He drew his cape around him, holding in what warmth he could. Normally he did not feel the cold--at least, not the ordinary cold of a world without Metallia. It was a sort of gift that he had had for as long as he could remember. But on this night, with the darkness all around him and the stars obscured by clouds, he longed for warmth.

As he shifted in his place on the bare floor, he felt some sharp object jab his thigh though his pants pocket. They were still there, the three stones that were now all that was left of his comrades. Someday, perhaps very soon, he would join them in their earthly graves. Until then, he alone would mourn their passing, and feel with a cold ache in his chest that the blame for their deaths was entirely on his shoulders.

He held the three semi-precious minerals in his palm, the smooth, cool surfaces sliding easily against his skin. If he had known nothing else about these stones, he would have still found them beautiful. One a vibrant, almost glowing green. One a dark, earthy green, ribbed with pale rings. One a shimmering, translucent blue. Each one unique in shape, texture, weight. Each one shining in the weak light. So beautiful...

He clenched the rocks in his fist, jagged edges digging into his skin. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry..."

"Kunzite."

The stones fell clattering to the floor, scattering somewhere in the shadows. He stared into the darkness, past the futon which held the sleeping prince. Three ghostly figures stood before him, exactly how he had last seen them. No, that was not quite true. They were insubstantial, ethereal, like visions out of a dream, brilliantly dressed in white and gold, thick brown capes sweeping back behind them. Their eyes no longer held the dull, hollow looks of men who had had their humanity stolen from them, but a fierce, intelligent brightness that he knew so well. Tiny motes of light danced around them, softly glowing as they drifted through the darkness, alighting the shadows and fading to nothingness as soon as they came in contact with anything solid. The three men loomed above him, standing tall and with that same nobility that they had once had.

And he... he was kneeling on the cold floor in the darkness, blood stains on his jacket and his hands, his head bent and his eyes hollow behind the hair that obscured them. They held more dignity in death than he possibly could in life.

"It's alright, Kunzite." It was Zoisite who spoke first, the warmth in his voice holding none of the poison that he had come to expect. 

Kunzite began to reach out for them, then stopped himself and retracted his hand. He would not be able to touch them, much as he wanted to hold them just then. Much as he wanted them to hold him. "You..." he whispered desperately instead, "you don't know how... how sorry I am..."

"Please, Kunzite." They were kneeling too, speaking with him eye-to-eye. Between the transparent phantoms with their dazzling white uniforms and the man in his faded gray one, a prince lay sleeping on his futon, oblivious to the guardians who spoke over him. "Please, that's all in the past now. Don't worry about that anymore."

"I have to worry about it. If I hadn't..." his head fell into his hand, silver-white hair falling in streams across his face, "this is all my fault."

"It doesn't matter now," Jadeite said calmly, with a shake of his short blond hair. Far more calmly than Kunzite remembered him being much of the time. Maybe Kunzite was just so used to being the one in control that it shocked him to see Jadeite handling things better.

"What's important is him," Nephrite amended, and no one asked who 'him' was. They all knew.

"Our Prince..." Zoisite said softly, his attention on the black-haired man between them. "How is he?"

Kunzite watched him as well, though he appeared no less sickly than he had looked hours ago. "He's very weak," he answered, his words only slightly strangled. "He was badly injured, but some power is sustaining him. When I..." he paused, took a breath, "when it happened, a piece of the Ginzuishou entered his body. I think that must have been keeping him alive until now. If... if it lasts, he may be able to hold on long enough to recover."

Zoisite nodded. "His powers aren't what they used to be, but he must still have his healing abilities. If he can just hold out until he's started to heal..." He caught the look on Kunzite's face. "He'll be alright, Kunzite."

Kunzite shook his head. "You don't know that. Even if he survives the next few days... how long do you think it'll be before Beryl tracks us here? A few days? A week?"

"Maybe. Maybe longer," Nephrite answered without hesitation. He had never been in the habit of lying to his leader, and he would not start now. "She'll be distracted by other things now. The sailor senshi will keep her busy, and with the Princess and the Ginzuishou in sight, she'd be a fool not to concentrate all her energy on them."

"Beryl is a fool. A vengeful one. That woman holds a grudge like no other. If her lust for Endymion isn't enough to send her knocking on our door, her fury at my treachery will be. No, she thinks with her body, and not her head. She'd give up even a chance at the Ginzuishou to have us."

"I'm not so sure about that," Jadeite replied. "Metallia will be more difficult to handle now. Beryl will have a hard time following her own selfish ambitions with a powerful demon goddess breathing down her neck."

Kunzite still looked dubious. "Be that as it may, it's only a matter of time before she comes after us. And when that happens..." one of the little light motes had drifted near his face, the calm glow reflected in his silver hair and the pinkish spodumene drop earring that hung from his ear. He turned away from it, almost flinching as the tiny drop of light landed on his cheek. It flickered slightly, then faded away, the strange warmth of it lingering on his skin. "When that happens," he continued, his voice scratchy, "I won't be any use to him. Some part of me still belongs to her. When she finds me, all she has to do is command me, and I'll be hers again. I'll be my Prince's enemy."

He could feel their eyes on him, heavy with their sympathy, their unjudging looks. If anyone could understand the pain, the guilt, the hopelessness, it was them. 

"But that hasn't happened yet, so you need to keep some hope." Zoisite was smiling--when was the last time he had seen Zoisite smile? "You've been given a chance to protect him, Kunzite, even if it is only temporary. And that is more than any of us could have wished for."

Nephrite nodded. "If any one of us were given this chance, I'm glad it's you. You'll do a better job of protecting him than any of us could have hoped to do."

Kunzite slowly shook his head, his eyes on the man lying before him. "I can't do much for him. Buy him some time, only. I only hope it will be enough."

"If not for you, he'd be sitting in that witch's lair right now," Jadeite said. "Even if you had done nothing else, that in itself was enough to rescue him from Beryl's grasp, and it might be the one thing that saves him."

"I hope so." Kunzite reached across his Prince's prone form, rough fingers gently brushing the sweaty bangs out of his eyes. Endymion sighed in his sleep, but made no other response to his guardian's touch. Despite all his comrades' reassurances, he still felt completely helpless right now. He was a trained soldier, a warrior and guardian to Earth's most precious possession, and yet here he was, unable to do anything except hide in some corner, like a rat. "I can't protect him alone," he muttered. "I'm powerless."

"You won't be alone," Nephrite said firmly. "We have very little power now, and can't do much. But what we can do, we will. You can be sure of that."

Kunzite nodded, somehow reassured. "We will need all the help we can get. If you could support him until he's recovered..."

"We'll do that," Nephrite replied. "And we'll make sure that barrier of yours holds."

"Don't lose faith, Kunzite," Zoisite said gently. "We're all still here in spirit, if not in body. You're not alone here."

"Thank you." Even as the words left Kunzite's mouth, they were leaving him, fading into the dust and scattered shadows. The last dancing motes of light fizzled out, leaving him to the darkness and the silence and the unconscious man with the ebony black hair. Despite Zoisite's words, he certainly felt alone.


	3. Chapter 3

It was only in the chill hours of morning, when the light seeped cold and weak through the dusty window, and the platinum clouds hid the breaking dawn from the eyes of Tokyo, that he finally began to stir. Kunzite had sat with him through the long hours of the night, had watched the sky gradually brighten as the minutes ticked by on the boy's watch; the only sign that time was actually passing.

The black-haired Prince groaned softly, stirring beneath the blankets. The movement brought on a sharp gasp of pain, and Kunzite was already by his side, hand gently stroking his face. "Shh, it's alright now. Just lie still." His voice was a deep, soft growl that was warm and comforting like velvet.

Endymion's deep blue eyes like spheres of polished sapphires slid open and met his, so identical to the eyes that he remembered that Kunzite's breath caught in his throat. He looked dazed as he stared at his surroundings, and Kunzite could see that he was not entirely awake.

"Endymion-sama?" That sharp blue gaze returned to his face, piercing even despite the sleep that lingered in them. The Prince stared at him a few moments, seeking some sort of recognition.

And then the recognition came, and--to Kunzite's own horror--fear. He could see it in the way that his eyes suddenly widened, the way his breathing, already a little labored, quickened, and the color drained from his already pale face. Kunzite realized what it must look like-that the man who had attempted to kill his beloved, who had nearly killed him, who was the very reason for him being in this position right now, was looming over him, and he himself was injured and defenseless. Kunzite suddenly felt an ache of sympathy, though it had been a very long time since he had felt such a thing.

"Don't be afraid," he said quickly. "No one's going to hurt you. You're safe here."

"Who are you?" The Prince asked groggily, still watching the white-haired man with a mixture of fear and mistrust.

"My name's Kunzite. I'm your--I'm a friend. You have nothing to fear from me. I won't harm you." He could see that his words were having very little effect--and why should they? For all his Prince knew, he really was the enemy. "Please believe me," he continued softly, almost desperately. "I know what you must think of me, but I swear to you, I am no enemy of yours. I'm here to help you."

"Where's... where's Usako?" He glanced around the empty room, as though she may be hiding in a corner somewhere.

"Usako? Is that... Princess Serenity? She's safely with her guardians. You protected her well. She's completely unharmed."

"Serenity. I remember..."

"Yes?" Kunzite prompted. He needed his Prince to remember. Not just Serenity, but everything. He needed to know who he was, what he was capable of. And he hoped, a little selfishly perhaps, that some part of him would remember his old guardian.

Anything the black-haired Prince was about to say dissolved behind another wince of pain. Kunzite sighed, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it now. Just get some rest. There will be time enough later to remember." Kunzite only hoped that was true.

"I... need to get to her... Serenity..." He was already slipping out of consciousness, despite his own protests.

Kunzite ran his fingers through the thick strands of black hair. "It's alright, Prince. Sleep now. Just sleep." His eyes slid closed, lapis lazuli vanishing behind thick eyelashes, and Kunzite could feel him sink back into the dark, dreamless void of the physically exhausted.

The white-haired man sat back on his heels, swallowing his disappointment. At least he was making some sort of progress. Despite how badly he had been injured the night before, it looked like he really would pull through. Kunzite did not dare feel any sort of relief at this thought, however. He did not dare to have much hope for anything, at this point.

And now, as before, there was nothing left to do but wait. But unlike the long, bleak waiting of the dark hours of the night, the daylight, dim though it was, brought with it a sort of optimism, and a newfound sense of purpose. He became restless, no longer content to merely sit by in the shadows. He paced the room, watched the streets through the dusty little window, repeatedly checked his barrier for flaws. No longer weighed down by the shadows of the night, he found himself searching for any menial task available in order to keep his mind and hands occupied.

The sun scaled the vast platinum dome outside, finally making a sparkling appearance through a ragged patch of blue. He had wiped most of the caked dust from the window, though it seemed that nothing could wash away the thin brownish layer of grime that coated it, and swept away the piles of dirt that covered the floor. Goodness knows how a building could fall into such disuse in Tokyo, where wasting space was almost considered a sin, but Kunzite did not ask questions. Records showed that it was not set to be demolished for some time, so as long as they remained undiscovered, the place was theirs to inhabit for the time being.

The young Prince spent much of the time in his unconscious stupor, the sound of his slow, rhythmic breathing the only sign of life out of him. A few moments brought him back to the waking world, but these times were brief, flickers in the dark, and Kunzite was unable to get any more words out of him after that first conversation. At the very least, he seemed to be improving, and by the time late afternoon rolled around, and the sun was beginning its warm, comfortable descent, even Kunzite had to allow himself to believe that his prince was going to live.

***

When he opened his eyes, the first sight that greeted him was the golden evening light that filtered through the grimy little window, catching little dust motes and scattering long shadows about the room. The room itself was small, unfurnished save the soft Japanese futon he was neatly tucked into, and smelled of dust and old age. The walls must have been white once, but were now various shades of yellow and brown, with a vast assortment of cracks and signs of water damage near the ceiling. Though the faded wood floor seemed to have been recently swept, he could still see the thick cobwebs higher up, tangled amongst the shadows. At the moment, he was the room's only inhabitant.

He had no idea how long he had been here, or for how long he had been out. Memories twisted at his gut: blinding light and unbearable pain and strange new emotions that had been lying dormant for what seemed his entire life, and Her...

Chiba Mamoru squeezed his eyes shut, taking a firm rein on his thoughts. No, best not to get worked up just yet. He needed to clear his head, needed to assess the situation, needed to think. Carefully, he laid out the issue in his mind, framing and organizing the information, as though his near-mortal encounter, the discovery of his soulmate, his memories spanning thousands of years and more, his possible kidnapping by an evil organization bent on world domination, were all merely facts in a typical textbook equation.

The future doctor in him won the argument for most important issue, and he immediately turned his attention to his injuries. Breathing was still a painful experience, and he tentatively ran a hand across the source of the sharp pain in his left shoulder. The wound was probably deep, and fell just shy of his heart--not exactly the healthiest place to be struck by a giant beam of energy--but, to his own surprise, was already neatly bandaged and cared for. Well, of course. How else could I survive an injury like that? Still, the revelation was disconcerting. Why injure him, capture him, and then treat the same injury that they had inflicted upon him in the first place?

Which brought him to the next important issue on his list. Unless that memory of the white-haired man kneeling over him was merely a dream, then there was no doubt as to where he was right now. Granted, this decrepit, crumbling room hardly looked the way that he would expect the Dark Kingdom to look, but who could account for evil's taste in interior design? And if that was the case, then he was, as some of his classmates would have called it, in deep shit. The fact that they had treated his wounds did very little to ease his fears; if anything, it was even more unnerving. He had seen war movies, darn it; he knew what was done to torture victims. If they wanted him alive, then obviously they planned to use him for something. Perhaps he was being used as a hostage, in which case, Usako might be bargaining for his life even as he lay here. Or maybe they planned to extract information from him, though there was only one important piece of information that he knew he needed to hide, and that was Sailor Moon's identity. His thoughts froze there. Had he inadvertently mentioned her name already? He could not remember anything that was said when he had woken up. He knew that he had been worried for her--of course he had--but what if, in his incoherent state, he had let her other, more secret name slip?

Either way, the damage may have already be done, and there was little he could do about it now. The important thing was to concentrate on getting out. He may not have had the strength of a sailor senshi, but he still had some of his own tricks, and he would not sit idly by while these hellish creatures used him for their sadistic purposes.

He began to push himself up off the futon, and nearly fell back again as the room did a flip-flop around him. He gritted his teeth, pushing himself up despite the throbbing, grinding pain that twisted at his frame and the nausea-inducing lightheadedness that caused the floor to lurch beneath him. When his vision began to fade into blackness and he felt his limbs go weak, he knew he had no choice but to stop. Panting and shaking through the sweat that glistened on his tanned skin, he slumped back against the wall behind him, halfway into a sitting position. Stars danced behind his eyelids, little fireworks bursting in white and purple and red. He could no more get himself to his feet than he could launch himself to the moon. Escaping in this condition was pretty close to impossible right now; not unless it involved someone carrying him past the Dark Kingdom defenses on a gurney.

Bunching his hand into an angry fist, he pounded the wall behind him, sending a flurry of broken plaster sprinkling to the floor. No matter what he did, no matter who he had once been or who he was supposed to be now, he was still completely helpless. He was alone in the dark, blind and voiceless, and as before, completely useless. He clutched at the floor, willing himself to sit up or lay down or do something, but all Mamoru could do was remain panting against the cold wall, waiting for his breathing to even out, and for someone to appear and carry out whatever sadistic plans they had for him.

Nothing made him feel more pathetic.

***

Kunzite carefully mounted the dilapidated stairs, keeping an eye out for that one broken step that had nearly sent him sprawling on the way down. At least they were climbable; it would certainly be a waste of energy to have to hover his way up the stairwell every time he bothered to go for a food run.

A plastic bag rustled at his side, its contents sending a wide assortment of mouthwatering aromas wafting throughout the deserted hallways. He could not even remember the names of half the food items he now carried, but he knew some of them involved some form of noodle. He had no idea what sort of food his Prince would like now, and so had opted to buy a wide assortment of dishes from the nearby takeout place.

At some point during the day, it had occurred to him that his Prince would be hungry. This revelation had come partially out of his own unusual feeling of emptiness, which had rather confounded him at first. Eating was not a common practice at the Dark Kingdom--Metallia's energy offered somewhat of a replacement for normal food consumption, and being that only a very small fraction of the population was human, the regular finding and storing of food was considered a waste of time and energy, and thus was not encouraged. Some people (Nephrite) had still eaten purely for the enjoyment of it, and Beryl did like her wine, but it had been a long time since Kunzite had even thought about eating. Now his prolonged stay beyond the Dark Kingdom's borders was bringing back all those trivial aspects of human life that he had forgotten about, and that included regularly forcing oneself to consume something that resembled food, even if it did come from a greasy restaurant that smelled like old cooking oil.

He was not sure whether eating takeout for the next few days was the wisest move, but he had found the kitchen to be somewhat inadequate for fine dining, and for that matter, he could not remember the last time he had attempted to use a stove (or really, if he ever had). So for the sake of his Prince's wellbeing and his own dignity, buying all of their meals was probably the safest idea.

He had also realized, upon reaching the muggy, overheated streets and noticing a few curious glances, that walking around in public with a sweeping white cape--especially when one is six foot four, crowned in long white hair, and positively imposing even when among monsters that could give the most well-adjusted human being nightmares for a month if he so much as glared at them--is not highly recommended for blending into the streets of Tokyo. Thus, he also had to use some of that carefully-hoarded money to purchase a new shirt. The pants and boots of his typical grey uniform could stay, as they appeared ordinary, but the heavy jacket with the elaborate epaulettes and high collar, along with the cape that shone brilliantly in the sunlight, just simply would not do.

He now tugged uncomfortably at the royal blue shirt he wore (the nice sales lady had insisted that it was his color), feeling rather naked without the extra ten pounds of fabric hanging off of his shoulders. To make himself feel better, he left the top few buttons undone in a most finicky manner, even though this move seemed to earn him more looks from the female (and occasionally male) populace than it may have otherwise done. With the sleeves rolled up to relieve some of the intense heat of the Tokyo streets, he now felt like he resembled a human being. Of sorts.

Thus dressed, with the food bouncing at his side and the ancient floor creaking beneath him, he arrived at the closed door with the murky plastic doorknob--once transparent and shaped like a delicate crystal--and pushed it open.

He was awake. In fact, he was sitting up, in a sense, and looking far more conscious than Kunzite had seen him in days. He turned when Kunzite entered, his movements hindered by his injuries, but the controlled swiftness still betraying that athletic agility that seemed to come so easily to him. His eyes, no longer dulled by pain and fatigue, shot straight up at Kunzite's face, so sharply that Kunzite nearly stumbled back. No longer were they flooded with the helpless, miserable fear of a cornered animal. Instead, they were hardened into knives of blue ice, a chilling sort of hatred frozen in their depths. There was no anger there, no irrational passion. Just cold, cold hatred.

Kunzite had been around a long time. He had inhabited the depths of Hell--for, he was certain, that was what the Dark Kingdom really was--had seen entire kingdoms crushed to rubble, had seen human beings murdered in cruel and unthinkable ways. Very few things could shake him, he thought. But this bitter, icy gaze, in a face he knew so well, sent a chill through him in response.

Somehow Kunzite managed to collect his scattered thoughts, which had haphazardly strewn themselves about the room in the wake of that terrifying glare, and stuffed them back into place, focusing his mind on something slightly more constructive than squirming like a pinned insect below his Prince's silent wrath.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said vaguely after a sharp clearing of his throat, starting towards the man who sat propped against the crumbling wall. He crossed through the beams of golden evening light, dust motes parting around him before wafting back into their slow, drifting pattern. The dark haired Prince said nothing; merely continued to lock Kunzite beneath those sharp blue sapphires, boring holes through him as though he were no more substantial than the air around him. Despite his weak and disheveled appearance, his somewhat humble position on the floor, and his compromising situation, it seemed as though he was the one looking down on the Dark Kingdom soldier, and not the other way around.

Neither had removed his gaze from the other's eyes, silver stubbornly meeting blue, but now Kunzite broke the contact off, using the action of kneeling down as an excuse to glance away. He looked his Prince over--carefully avoiding those eyes, which seemed to sting him every time he dared glance their way. He certainly looked better than he had before. Color had begun to return to his cheeks, and his breathing did not appear quite as painful. Still, his position against the wall did not look the least bit comfortable, and Kunzite suspected that he was still too weak to help himself much in that respect.

He pushed the bag of food out of the way, leaning forward. "Here, let me-" his hand paused in the process of reaching out, because at the moment his hand had come anywhere near the black-haired Prince, the man started, as if burned. The eyes still bore their inexorable cerulean chill, ever fixed on Kunzite, but his breathing had quickened, and Kunzite could see the rapid pulse pounding in that soft part of his throat. So some part of him really was still frightened, even if the rest of him was fearless.

Kunzite retracted his hand slowly, uncertain of how to respond. Shifting uncomfortably beneath the unceasing gaze, he turned back to the bag of food next to him and busied himself with emptying its contents. The man watched him steadily the entire time, as he focused intently on the task of opening containers and setting them out on the floor.

"Why am I here?"

The question came so abruptly that Kunzite nearly dropped the little styrofoam container of udon in his hand. He carefully righted it, thankful that the lid was still on. "You don't remember me, do you Endymion?"

"Of course I remember you," the black-haired Prince spat. "The guy who tried to kill the girl I--who tried to kill Sailor Moon. How could I forget?"

Kunzite set the container of udon next to the others, watching the fat little buckwheat noodles floating in their sauce. He wondered how he had really intended to finish that sentence before he stopped himself. The girl you what, Prince? Love? I know you love her. Everyone knows that.

"You never answered my question. What am I doing here?"

He glanced up at the Prince he was sworn to protect--though it was only a glance--before continuing with his task as though it were gravely important. "Because you were badly injured," he answered gruffly. It seemed like a silly answer, somehow, but he could find no other answer to give without launching into an hour-long explanation. And Endymion definitely was not ready for that yet.

The black-haired man seemed to be trying to digest this. "You captured me because I was injured?" He asked, rather disbelieving. "Or do you mean that my being injured is what enabled you to capture me?"

Kunzite shook his head at a container of vegetables. "You were not captured. You were rescued." He set the container on the floor, lining it up next to the others. "And your injury would have left you vulnerable to much more than being transported to the other end of town, let me assure you."

"So this isn't the Dark Kingdom," the Prince said after a few moments of thought.

"Does this look much like the Dark Kingdom to you?"

"Don't know. What does a kingdom composed of slimy, ugly scum, not to mention youma, look like?" The black-haired man asked scathingly.

Kunzite knew he was trying to bait him. "Much darker. Hence the name."

"Then what is this place? And what am I doing here, if not in the Dark Kingdom?"

"This is a refuge. And I told you what you're doing here. You're here to recover from your injuries."

There was a tense silence, in which Kunzite found himself lining up packets of soy sauce in a neat row. He could still feel those eyes like a weight on the top of his head.

"Do you expect me to believe that?" It was not really a question, or even an accusation. Merely an observation, made with all the cool sureness of an expert in the field. "You must think that I've forgotten just who I was fighting against before, or that my injuries have rendered me incapable of thinking rationally. You'd be a fool to think that."

"You're probably right in that respect. You may believe whatever you want, but there is much that you don't know yet. Perhaps you should wait to hear the full story before making judgments."

"Enlighten me, then."

Kunzite again glanced up, evenly meeting that glacial stare. "Later, perhaps. When you're feeling better."

"Where are the rest of my clothes?"

"Folded up in the other room. You can have them back, if you like, but I doubt that laying around in a full tuxedo and cape would be especially comfortable, especially given their rather bloodstained condition. I suppose if you undid your transformation, you'd have another set of clothes at your disposal." Judging from the slight flare of anger on the black-haired man's face, this was the wrong thing to say. Of course--Endymion's transformation was the only thing protecting his normal, civilian identity from being discovered. Even without the mask and half of his outfit, he was still protected by that strong magic that protected all sailor senshi, so that even a casual glance at him on the street would prevent his enemies from recognizing him. His Prince probably figured that this was one of the few lines of defense that he had left. Kunzite nodded. "I see. Well maybe we can get ahold of some more comfortable clothes for you later on. Now, I think it would be wise if you got some food in your stomach." He placed a set of chopsticks, sealed in their little paper wrapper, in front of the carefully arranged array of food.

The man's eyes left him for the first time, casting a distrustful glance at the meal that had been laid out before him.

"If my intent was to harm you, I would have done it by now," Kunzite said carefully. "Poisoning your food would hardly be the most efficient means of killing you."

The Prince still made no move to eat, and the white-haired man sighed, gathering up the bag containing the meager portion that would pass for his own meal, and rising to his feet.

"You can't keep me here," the Prince said decisively.

"I don't doubt it. But I intend to try." He stepped towards the door, heavy boots stomping hollowly across the bare floor. "You'd best eat something. You need your strength." Then, without even a glance back at the dark-haired Prince, he retreated to the dark hallways, away from the room with the dust motes dancing in the golden sunbeams.

The moment the door clicked closed behind him, Kunzite slumped against the wall, drinking in a deep, steadying breath from the cool, dark air. That chilling hatred. How could he have remained in the same room as those intense ice-blue eyes another second? If his Prince had been angry, if he had shouted and demanded and flooded the room with righteous anger, that he could take. But this, this silent contempt...

He swallowed, getting ahold of himself. No one ever said that protecting the Prince of the Earth would be easy, after all.

With his hand decisively clenched around the bag, he dragged himself through the gloomy corridor to the adjacent room where he would eat his own solitary meal and figure out how either of them would survive the next few days.


	4. Chapter 4

The last of the golden sunlight faded into a purplish sort of dusk, deepening the shadows that churned in the corners of the room. The empty food containers were stacked off to the side. He had managed to demolish pretty much every edible dish (as well as some more questionable ones) that had been set before him--after all, if it was going to poison him either way, he may as well eat his fill of it and die on a full stomach.

Mamoru sighed briefly. That man would be back any minute. Would he keep up the whole 'taking care of him' act, or would he get down to worse things? The act had altogether thrown him off; he had no idea what to think about the Dark Kingdom soldier's strange tactics. In fact, everything about him seemed strange to him; he neither looked nor acted the way that he would expect an incarnation of evil to, nor did he seem like any normal human that he had met before.

Mamoru could not help but remember the first thing that caught his attention when he appeared in the doorway--long, white hair, straight and fine, tumbling like glaciers down his shoulders. He had passed the window overlooking the streets, and the sunbeams seemed to flare up suddenly, each silver hair like a tiny prism refracting the light in a million rainbows all about the room. The sudden light nearly blinded him, shimmering all around the man like some mystic aura, and giving him the look of a heavenly being, rather than a creature of darkness. And then he was back in the shadows again, and his hair was once again ordinary--a dull white, like sun-bleached bones.

He was frighteningly tall and heavyset--certainly, he looked especially imposing from Mamoru's position on the floor, but judging by his height in comparison to the door frame, Mamoru guessed him to be quite a bit taller than himself. Mamoru was used to being much taller than most people. This additional disadvantage, no matter how trivial in a world of magic, was yet one more tally in the list of odds against him.

Then he had finally had a look at the man's face, and found that it was no less striking than any of his other features. His eyes were like his hair--a dull, pale silver, but with hints of other shades lurking somewhere beneath the exterior. They were steady and unwavering, a brick wall through which Mamoru could not even attempt to penetrate. His features were sharp, like a warrior's, but subtly delicate, creating a powerful sort of beauty that was both strange and exotic. His expression betrayed no thoughts or emotions, not even after Mamoru's futile attempts to drive him to anger. It was as though nothing at all moved him; he was cold and neutral as a machine.

Which left Mamoru with absolutely nothing, because he was no closer to figuring out the white-haired man's intentions than he had been in the first place, other than that for some mysterious reason, he felt the need to get on Mamoru's good side. And then there was what he had called him--Endymion-sama. He had called him by his other name, his old one, the one he only just learned himself. And he had used such a high honorific with it, as if he were someone of importance and authority. As if he were royalty. Inwardly, he shook his head. This was all very complicated, and even if he could figure out the truth, that was not to say that it would benefit him in any way. Why dwell on the reason for his captor's actions? None of it could change his status.

He shifted slightly beneath the blankets, trying to ease the pain in his chest. Loath though he was to admit it, eating had helped. It seemed odd that he could feel hungry at all in this situation, but perhaps a need to restore some level of his energy was what drove his hunger. His energy reserves were low after his ordeal, his body struggling to repair itself from a level of trauma that it had never before experienced. Now sated, he had little difficulty maneuvering himself back into a lying position, and rolling over onto his side. He now lay with his back to the door, the blankets drawn up around his arms and the last of the fading light trailing away on the floor before him.

It was true that he knew next to nothing about where he was or what they wanted with him. It was also true that even a lone Dark Kingdom soldier likely had him outgunned even when he was at full health. But Mamoru knew that, despite his better judgement, he would not calmly allow himself to be the tool of the Dark Kingdom. Not without a fight.

The hollow tramp of heavy boots echoed down the hallway, sending a crackle of energy down Mamoru's spine. He hurriedly fought to relax his body and control his rapid breathing, closing his eyes against the darkness. The door creaked open, and he could feel the man behind him like a cold winter frost breathing on the back of his neck. He crossed the room, the silence weighing heavily except for the drum of his feet and Mamoru's shaky breaths. There was a shuffle behind him, so close to his back that it felt like his hair was standing on end, and the swift movement of hands gathering up the discarded containers sent the air stirring so close to his skin that he was certain the man was almost touching him.

A plastic bag crinkled as it was set aside, the stillness returning and the sound of Mamoru's own heart drumming in his ears. He was leaning over him-he could feel him just above him, so close now that they were almost touching. A hand reached around to pull on the blankets, exposing the man's chest and all the vital organs that lay beneath...

Beneath the thick covers, the dark soldier had failed to see the red rose resting between his fingers, the petals delicate and half-closed, but the thorns like deadly razors against Mamoru's skin. He made no sound, no warning; just turned with a swift ferocity and struck blindly. There was a pained yelp as the living blade ripped through flesh and muscle, and Mamoru drove the steel-hard stem in further. Hot blood flowed around his fingers, dripping down his arm in dark, crimson beads. It slicked his grip on the weapon, and when he tried to pull it out again, he was forced to squeeze it tightly, the thorns cutting into his own palm. With a snarl, he ripped it out of the man's shoulder, splattering blood on his own face.

He brought the rose up again, trying to strike a second time, but strong hands caught him around the wrists, forcing his arms back. "Let go!" Mamoru barked, writhing in the man's grasp. In his struggles, he managed one last slash, catching the man across his right cheek, and leaving a bloody gash where he had struck. His enemy's hands clamped like steel traps.

"Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself!" The man shoved him down on the floor, locking Mamoru's arms painfully above his head. The back of his head smacked sharply against the hardwood, and the rose slid from his grasp. His head pounding, his arms weak and unresponsive, still he grit his teeth and glared furiously at the man who held him pinned so completely.

His captor was barely panting, his silver hair hanging like a curtain about his face, blood showing crimson against the white. He had changed back into the heavy grey uniform that Mamoru had seen him in before, and the blood was steadily soaking through the jacket, spanning much of his left shoulder like a great red spider. He felt a twisted sort of satisfaction, seeing the shredded fabric and the steady flow of blood beneath, but the man seemed completely unhindered by the wound, and paid it no attention. Instead, he was staring incredulously at the black-haired Prince, some mix of emotions that Mamoru could not understand stirring beneath those grey eyes.

Mamoru's breathing came in ragged gasps, every breath sending a great shock of pain exploding all throughout his chest. Stars burst in front of his eyes, blurring the man's face above him. "Let me go," he hissed between gritted teeth.

"Not until you calm down," the man growled, and Mamoru tried not to wince as he felt his fingers dig deeper into his wrists. Instead he twisted against their bruising grip, refusing to acknowledge his defeat. It was like struggling against a brick wall.

The pain was arching through his whole body, a fire that raged and flared up every time he attempted to inhale. No matter how much he tried to gasp, the oxygen refused to fill his lungs. He was drowning on the cold, dark floor. The stars were exploding in his vision, obscuring everything save a blur of pure white hair that dangled inches from his face. He struggled to keep the trembling out of his voice as he mumbled, "I'm... not afraid of you... I..."

Somewhere above him, someone muttered a curse, and his hands were released. Dimly, he thought that this was his chance, but his arms felt so heavy now, and everything was going dark. A callused hand caught the side of his face as his head fell to the side, holding it so gently that some part of him wondered who it could be. "Endymion!" Somewhere, very far above his head, someone was speaking urgently. "Stay with me, alright? Stay with me now..."

Stay with me.

***

Kunzite gingerly adjusted the makeshift bandage around his shoulder before returning his attention to his unconscious Prince. Somehow, he would manage to dress the wound one-handed when he had the time; for now, the hastily bound scrap of fabric would have to be enough to slow the bleeding while he concentrated on more important matters.

Endymion shifted in his sleep as the white-haired man carefully re-bandaged his chest wound. He had been out for fifteen minutes or so--just long enough to clean the wound again and replace the gauze. He had intended to do this later this evening, but all of his Prince's thrashing around had started him bleeding again, which had been more than a little alarming. Kunzite was certain that he had unintentionally done his Prince great harm in his attempts to hold him still. Even now, he could feel that sense of panic rising in the back of his throat, that chilling feeling of dread creeping along the back of his neck. But for all his panicked checking, the black-haired Prince seemed fine--just as badly wounded as ever, but no worse than before.

He glanced at the deep red rose that still lay in the dust where it had fallen. The blood shone crimson on the barbed wire thorns and in the splatters on the floor, so easily matching the petals that Kunzite knew would be soft, tender flesh like living silk against his skin. An interesting choice of weapons indeed.

But no more than he should have expected of his Prince. Kunzite cursed his carelessness. He should have known better, should have realized that Endymion would always fight back, always fight even when all the world was against him and he alone stood defending what was right while those he loved deserted him one by one.

But Kunzite had overlooked this obvious fact, because it was easy to forget that his Prince saw him as nothing more than an enemy, and one who must surely be eliminated. His cheek stung where the rose had slashed it, already growing stiff with the quickly drying blood. He pushed the pain away from himself. There were more urgent matters at hand.

The Prince's eyes fluttered open suddenly, cobalt irises staring up at the white-haired man. "Don't move," Kunzite warned, preempting another struggle. His hand was pressed to the gauze over Endymion's chest, holding it in place. He was careful to avoid adding any more pain to what was probably already quite excruciating. The Prince showed no sign of how it felt and instead watched him warily, silently obeying. "Your little stunt was pretty brave, I'll give you that, and if you were at full capacity, it might have even worked. But you're in no shape to be trying to wrestle me to the ground. If you're really that eager to kill me, I would suggest waiting until you've recovered from your injuries. Maybe you could try again in a few days," he added dryly.

Endymion scowled, turning away to glare at some distant corner of the room. That served Kunzite just fine; he could really use a break from being glared at.

Several minutes passed before either of them spoke again. Kunzite focused intently on wrapping Endymion's shoulder in gauze bandages and securing it with medical tape. His hands were gloved--in latex, not in the white ones that came with his uniform--and any blood spilled on the futon was quickly dabbed up as much as possible. 

"Why would you be acting against the Dark Kingdom?" The Prince asked suddenly.

Kunzite glanced up, only to find himself fixed in that steady blue-eyed gaze. "What was that?"

"You said before that this place is a refuge, that you 'saved' me. Am I supposedly being protected from the Dark Kingdom, then?" The white-haired man nodded, grey eyes locked sincerely on blue ones. "Then why? Not that I believe it, mind you, but I'm curious. As I recall, you were fighting on the Dark Kingdom's side until now."

Kunzite sat back on his heels, never taking his eyes off his Prince's. "It's complicated," he said at length.

"It's complicated," Endymion mimicked in a slightly mocking tone. "How am I supposed to believe you if you won't tell me everything?"

"Alright." Kunzite picked up the antibiotic ointment and and reached for the Prince's hand. Endymion tried to snatch it back as soon as he took hold of it, but Kunzite grasped him firmly around the wrist. "Don't test me," he ordered. Seething, Endymion remained still as he pried his hand open and began to clean the cuts on his palm. 

"You believe we are all monsters. Perhaps you are not wrong. But there is more hidden in the Dark Kingdom than you realize. Some of those you have met, who were defeated, were not acting of their own volition. Someone made them what they were. Altered their minds, their memories. Fundamental parts of their being." Kunzite's voice remained flat and emotionless as he said this. Yet he could not help the glance he shot from Endymion's hands to his eyes, seeking some sign of... recognition, of memory. 

Endymion's eyes were blue fire, angry and untrusting. There was no hint of revelation there. But he was still listening. Kunzite glanced away again, and continued. "You likely did not see her, that night. The one who commands all the Dark Kingdom's movements. We called her a queen, and never questioned whether that title was hers to claim. We never questioned any of it. Until now." Kunzite finished cleaning the cuts and paused to dig around in his well-stocked collection of first aid supplies for an appropriately-sized bandage.

Endymion, it seemed, was intrigued enough by the story to prompt him to continue. "Why now? What changed?"

"The Ginzuishou." He turned back, and began to wrap the Prince's hand up. "She told us it was simply a weapon. Perhaps she herself did not anticipate what its appearance could do. It burned away some of her hold. Restored some of what was lost. To their souls... and to mine." Kunzite stopped, suddenly aware that his Prince was watching him, and realized that his hands had faltered and that he was no longer wrapping the bandage. He cleared his throat, and returned to his work.

"So you just... woke up? Realized that you've been doing the wrong thing all along?"

"You could say that, yes." After a few moments he asked, "so do you believe me?"

"Not a word of it."

Kunzite straightened the bandage, then released Endymion's hand. "Well as long as we have that established."

***

Hours later, in the hushed darkness of the night, Kunzite had retreated from the room with stern orders for the Prince to get some sleep. With some difficulty, he managed to get his shoulder cleaned and bandaged, and cleaned the cut on his face. He now sat against the sill of the window in the adjacent room across the hall that he had claimed for himself. It was smaller than the other one, and dustier, too. He had not bothered to give it more than a quick sweeping to keep the dust at bay. The window's glass, as well, was much dirtier, and made the room seem that much darker.

Kunzite did not mind the dark-not usually, anyway. He saw more clearly in it than normal humans, and could feel within himself a sort of kinship; that same deep, chilling sort of power, like the stirring of ancient shadows. But lately he longed for a sort of light, and not the kind that could come from a lamp. He had known that kind of light in his Prince, once. Warm, nourishing light that healed all that it touched and filled him with a sort of... peace, one could say. Endymion had always been the light to his darkness, the one who gave him warmth and held at bay the ice that always threatened to encrust his soul. He missed it. He missed it dearly.

The false artificial lights of the street lit him from behind, the strange colors filtering through the dusty glass with an oily sort of texture. His hair hung down around his face, picking up the orangey glow and dully reflecting it back. The red rose lay in his hands, having been confiscated earlier, the stem with its steel thorns now wrapped up in bit of damp gauze, both to protect him from any more cuts and to keep the rose, in all its dangerous beauty, as fresh and alive as though it had just been plucked from a sunny garden. He brushed a finger across the tips of the petals-he had been right about how soft they would feel; like powder, barely tangible. He turned it over in his hands, observing the way that the petals lay half-closed against one another, the way that the tiny network of veins ran through the soft flesh, the way that the color faded from one deep shade of red to another. Here, somewhere, perhaps hidden deep within the many red layers that softly enclosed some secret within, he could feel a tiny spark of that light that he had come to know so well.

The rose was a deadly weapon, but he could see now that it was so much more than that. It was a piece of his Prince's soul, given a form that was both delicate and deadly, both beautiful and powerful. It had taken shape in something that his Prince could see and understand, but the true essence of it, he could sense, had no real form, and could have appeared as anything--a sword, a flash of light, a whisper. But here in his hand was a piece of his Prince, fashioned in the shape that he had subconsciously chosen, and holding it now, he felt like nothing else could have been more appropriate.

"You haven't told him."

A normal person would have jumped at the voice echoing out of the empty darkness, but Kunzite had felt their presence since that night, and he knew they were nearby. They were always around him now, the living spirits of his three comrades, though he had felt no signs of their existence other than the constant warm feeling of their power lingering next to his, and of the eyes watching his back. Now he could feel them as keenly as he had on that first encounter, as though they had temporarily shifted just a little more into his world.

"No. I haven't."

The darkness fell back, shying away from the motes of light that wafted out from their source. The one who had spoken was Nephrite, and it was he who stood there now. "Why?" It was a simple question, flat and to the point, but heavily laden with all that lay unsaid.

Kunzite turned to gaze at the buildings outside, pushing away the urge to reach out for his ethereal friend, standing a scant few feet away from him. "What would I say to him? That I betrayed him? That I was really supposed to be his friend, his guardian? He already sees me as nothing but an enemy. I couldn't bear him knowing that I'm something worse than that."

The silence was so complete that, turned away like this, Kunzite could have imagined that he was alone in the room. The brunette gave off no sound--not a breath, not a rustle of fabric, not a creak from the floorboards beneath his translucent feet. Just dead, empty silence.

"He has to know, Kunzite," he said at length.

He nodded, his eyes on the distant buildings outside. He could see well down the street from here, past the crowded residential homes that huddled against one another through the night. "I know. I will tell him. I just wish I had more time, to let him adjust to it. To let us both adjust to it, I guess."

"Seems you've bought some time, just as you'd hoped. If Beryl had any inkling of where you were, she would have attacked long ago."

"Let's hope that lasts." Kunzite turned away from the window, his attention once again on the object in his hands. Carefully, he unwrapped the damp fabric from around the stem. "Look at this, Nephrite." The rose lay flat on his outstretched palms, the gauze pulled open to reveal it in all its deadly majesty. As though attracted to the flower's beauty, the light motes danced like tiny fairies around it, giving it an enchanted, otherworldly appearance. The brunette leaned over it, his hair falling in auburn waves around his face.

"Beautiful," he breathed after a moment.

"Do you know what this is?"

Nephrite nodded, never removing his gaze from the rose, and Kunzite could see in his face the same hushed reverence that he himself felt. He was studying every detail of it, drinking in every minute facet of its being, because this tiny shred of his Prince's deepest soul may be the closest he would ever be to him.

"He tried to kill me with it," the white haired man commented wryly. "Damn near succeeded, too."

For the first time, he saw his comrade's face light up in amusement. "Giving you a run for your money, is he? I might have expected it."

Kunzite offered a faint smile in return. "Well he's certainly not making things any easier." So much had changed between them. So many years--no, centuries--had passed since they had spoken to each other as friends. They had stopped knowing each other long ago. Perhaps, he mused, their friendship had died along with them on that day so far in the past. But through the long years of darkness, they still found themselves on common ground, and it was a place where blue eyes flashed like polished jewels. They would always be united here, as comrades and former friends; the guardians of the Prince of Earth.

The brunette's eyes grudgingly left the rose to once again regard his former leader. "Kunzite, what you said before about Beryl concerns me. You're probably right about her still lusting for Endymion after all this time. Now that she knows who he is, she may very well change her plans to include him."

"It would not surprise me." Kunzite carefully wrapped the rose back up--it was somewhat distracting, having such a shining treasure there between them--but continued to hold it fondly. "But you were also right in saying that she is in no position to defy Metallia at this point. The 'mighty leader' is close to awakening fully. When that happens, she'll have her sights on nothing other than the Ginzuishou and on Earth itself."

"And when that happens?"

"Then there will not be a thing we can do to stop her, and nothing in this world will hide us from her." His thumb brushed across a petal, satin between his fingers. "But the Princess has awakened, and she has all four of her guardians with her, now. She has Venus. If her power is anything like that of her mother's, there is still hope for this planet, and for our Prince."

Nephrite nodded sullenly, casting his eyes across the delicate object in Kunzite's hands. "So the protection of this planet rests on the people of the Moon. Earth has lost her guardians, after all."

Kunzite's silver eyes met his brown ones. "Earth will always have her Prince."

The brunette seemed to be about to say something, but a soft creak in the floorboards brought both of them up short. Hollow silence filled the vast frame of the empty building, but from across the hall, in the room where their Prince should have been sleeping, was the unmistakeable sound of the ancient door with the false crystal knob swinging open with a deep, audible groan.

The two former Shitennou glanced at each other, and Nephrite gave a short, barely perceptible bow. "Then I'll leave you to make sure of that." The darkness moved to fill in in the place where Nephrite had been, and Kunzite was alone in the room.

His eyes lingered in the place where his comrade had stood, adjusting to the sudden loss of light, and the emptiness filling the place where there had once been a friendly face. He turned to the windowsill, carefully laying the rose across it, as though offering a precious gift upon an altar. Then, with one final glance at the delicate object, he did what he was told. He went to make sure of that.

The food must have done him some good, because he was on his feet--in a matter of speaking. When Kunzite poked his head out the door, he was met with the sight of his Prince, bare feet standing unsteadily on the dusty floor. Endymion leaned heavily against the wall outside his room, bare chest heaving with the effort, face flushed. His tangled hair fell in his face, strands of black satin that shaded his eyes. Prince and guardian exchanged embarrassed looks--embarrassed both at the situation, and at seeing each other's embarrassment, and on and on it went. The black-haired man appeared, for all the world, downright miserable at his compromising situation, barely able to stand and unwilling to ask the one available person for help. Kunzite's initial instinct would have been to run to his aid, if not for the violent reactions he seemed to cause whenever he went anywhere near Endymion. At a loss for what to say to each other, both could only stand there, staring across the hall at the man who was inexplicably both friend and enemy.

"Do you need something?" Kunzite asked lamely.

Red-faced, he shifted against the wall, staring hard at the floor. "I... I need to..."

Then it finally dawned on Kunzite. "Oh." He moved towards his Prince-not too quickly, for fear of startling him-and gently took him by the arm. The black-haired Prince stiffened instinctively, only to wince in pain as a result. "It's alright. Here." He eased his Prince's arm up around his shoulders, sliding his own arm along his back, hand resting on a bare waist. He moved slowly, like a person dealing with a frightened animal, until all at once Prince and guardian found themselves pressed against one another, Kunzite's uniform rough against Endymion's skin, his strong arm holding the Prince steady. When he had the black-haired man in a steady hold, he felt, almost imperceptibly, his Prince begin to relax. Kunzite carefully led him forward, bare feet padding along the cold floor next to the heavy clamp of boots. "Easy now," Kunzite muttered, wrapping his hand further around the slender waist. "Bathroom's this way."

The two passed together through the narrow hallway, feet moving in time, and in the shadowed places of the building, the darkness swallowed them both whole.


End file.
